


The Case of the Missing Moll

by 221A_brina



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries, Underbelly: Squizzy
Genre: Bodyswap, Crossover, F/M, I know I'm late for that one, Lazy but actually clever?, MFMM Year of Tropes, My First Case Phic, So I'm sneaking both into this one, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-11-19 19:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11320272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221A_brina/pseuds/221A_brina
Summary: They say everyone has a doppelgänger. In 1928 Melbourne, Australia, this pair is on opposite sides of the law. A fact not lost on Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Perhaps they can use it to their mutual advantage?





	1. Wrap Up

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after S1E6 "Ruddy Gore" (mid- September around the 16th,1928) and before S1E7 "Murder in Montparnasse" (around 6 Oct, 1928).
> 
> Rating will probably change as this progresses. Needed to get this in by the deadline & am still working on it. Thanks for your patience (which we all know NO ONE here has as a 1st, middle or last name). Bear with me. This is gonna be a fun ride.

The sun had long set beneath the horizon; the station lights were dimmed for the overnight shift. His desk lamp cast a lonely shadow over his desk which was covered with a disarray of paperwork. After signing the last report of the night and placing it in its proper folder, Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson tossed his pen into the center of the sea of papers. He pushed back in his chair and ran his fingers across his brows and leaned his head back, slowly letting his eyes close and his breath escape. He was exhausted. Exhausted, but pleased. Pleased to have solved another current case (with the assistance of Miss Fisher, of course), and also, unbeknownst to the Victorian Constabulary until now, to have solved an additional murder case which, 20 years previous, had been ruled a suicide. That of actress/soprano Dorothea Curtis. He definitely counted that in the 'win' column. Two more to add to his already impressive solve rate. A rate, which he unbegrudgingly noted, had increased since meeting the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, Lady Detective.

Justice was served, criminals would be punished, loose ends would be tied up, and the opportunity for closure given to those involved. It was just the paperwork that seemed to stretch on ad infinitum, ad nauseam. It was days like these he was of two minds – did the exhaustion, long days and late nights, bumps and bruises outweigh or at least balance out the hoops and mazes of paperwork he had to navigate? When a case had a resolution such as this one, he sided with yes. Other cases? Those were other stories. Other matters, for other days. 

He stretched his neck and slowly rolled it in a circular motion; forward to one shoulder, towards his back, the other shoulder, and finally canting forward, his chin resting on his chest. He inhaled deeply, paused and slowly released a measured exhale. Jack took one more slow breath and re-opened his eyes, feeling minutely better. 

_Yes,_ he thought. The looks on the faces of a victim's loved ones consistently confirmed and reassured him that what he did, what he was doing had merit, meaning and value. He was helping people get justice and resolution for the crimes perpetrated against them or those they loved. It was a 'noble calling,' his father had said to him so many years ago. 

He huffed a slight grin. Somehow he'd never envisioned himself firmly ensconced on a white steed, shining armor in place, lance at the ready, nor as a Don Quixote tilting at windmills, but somewhere in between and rather firmly placed on the solid ground of reality. 

The Inspector collected the errant files, reports and other ephemera and sorted them in to neat piles along the side of his desk to distribute, send or file in the morning. 

His stomach growled, breaking the silence with a loud rumble, once more reminding him of his brief moment some ten or more hours previous when he'd barely had time swallow down a cuppa and quickly grab a pie off the cart near the station on his way to the theatre. Jack looked at his watch as he rose from his chair to retrieve his hat and coat to head home. He donned them both, reached down to turn off the desk lamp and left his office, closing the door on his way out. Another unintentionally late night. He hoped he could wrangle at least a few hours of decent sleep before having to turn around and return here in the morning. 

"Constable," he nodded to Simons as he passed the front counter and headed out the front doors. 

Constable Simons, the somewhat young, but capable newest night shift officer looked up from his paperwork to acknowledge his superior. 

"Sir. Good night, sir." He smiled. 

"Good night," the Inspector replied and exited the station. 

Upon stepping out, Jack again drew in a deep cleansing breath, letting the cool night air fill his lungs and clear his head. He paused momentarily, letting his eyes close for the briefest of moments... or so he thought. Before he could react, a sickly sweet aroma assailed his nostrils and he felt himself being forcibly restrained from behind. 

As the last traces of consciousness slipped away, he thought ironically, _At least they didn't knock me out._ Detective Inspector Jack Robinson most certainly had a strong constitution, but his alarming tendency to accumulate head wounds on this job was becoming worrisome.


	2. The Mobster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack discovers the where, who, and why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the delay in getting out this next chapter. RL got a bit nutty... not to mention 'our boys' decided to have a closed door session - quite clearly (and conveniently?) forgetting that I needed to be in on it. Men! 
> 
> Special nod to OllyJay who gets Chef and Dessert Chef credit. On a side note, we thought Quiltingmom might like a little appetizer. ;o)

Jack Robinson began to slowly emerge from unconsciousness, vaguely aware of hushed voices and soft lighting. He steadied his breathing hoping he hadn't alerted his assailants of his waking. Using his finely honed skills, he tried to surreptitiously assay his surroundings. He was seated upright in a cushioned wood chair, which one part of his brain noted, _was surprisingly comfortable_. He also noticed he hadn't been restrained or tied up in any way, which puzzled him. A quick internal check confirmed that he had not been injured either. 

 _Hmm... perplexing._  

He staved off the reflexive reaction of creased brows and pursed lips, easing his features into one of an imperturbable calm. 

The tang of sly grog and wafts of smoke greeted his nose. Muted sounds of a gaming parlor played out in the background; the steady clicking buzz of a roulette wheel interspersed with the erratic bounce of its ball, cards being shuffled and dealt, the rattle and tumble of dice on a table, and the distinct clink of crystal tumblers. Hushed voices washed in and out with one voice standing out amongst the rest. One that, if it were possible, sounded astonishingly similar to his own in timbre and tone. A rich baritone that commanded attention, yet this one held a hint of someone from the streets combined with a slight air of acquired sophistication and a bit of education thrown in for good measure. 

Jack's unerring sense that eyes were trained on him was confirmed when 'that voice' _his voice,_ cut through the amalgamation of sounds. "Ah... it seems our esteemed guest has finally joined us." 

Jack let the ruse drop. Finally and fully opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings. He was seated in a luxurious parlor-cum-office replete with red curtains, ornate wall paper, and gilded décor. It's opulence blatant evidence of its owner's amassed (and ill-gotten) wealth. 

"Stokes," the detective observed. His steely-eyed gaze locked onto the man behind the elaborate desk, his jaw clenching, a myriad emotions surging just under the surface. He paused, and continued to analyze the situation at hand. 

Eyes like his own, but more sea green, looked back at him from a face not unlike the one he'd encounter in a mirror. He had heard rumors of their resemblance. A resemblance that, he was beginning to realize, was uncanny, but with some distinct differences, especially in regards to their comportment and manners (hair color and facial hair notwithstanding). 

Cheeks, edged by a narrow and meticulously trimmed beard running along his jawline, clenched around a fragrant cigar held between lips topped with the continuation of the zigzagging line of his mustache, bringing a sharp definition to the planes of his face. He reached a large hand up and extracted the cigar in a well-practiced two finger grasp. Henry Stokes, Crime King of the South, exhaled heavily and brought his ring finger and thumb under the cigar to tab the flake of tobacco adhering to his tongue, and absent-mindedly flicked it away. 

"Robinson," replied Stokes, eyes as resolute and formidable as the blue steel ones locked on his own. Without disengaging his gaze from Jack, Henry canted his head in the direction of the man standing behind the detective.  

"You sure, boss?" His lackey asked. "I don't know if we can trust this jack." 

Detective Robinson let out an almost imperceptible huff of air through his nose; the barest hint of a smirk dusted the far corner of his lips. He had always found it humorous - almost cheeky - that his nickname was also the slang term for his occupation. Hearing it coming from the mouth of a criminal always gave him a moment of amusement. That somehow, it would appear to an outsider, as if he and the criminal were on a first name basis. 

"I'm sure the Inspector and I can come to an understanding," a wry smile accompanied by a devilish glint invaded his otherwise unwavering stare. Both sets of eyes were still locked and unflinching; a power play as easily won as it might if one looked in a mirror expecting the other face to yield.  

Appeased, the lackey exited through the heavy red velvet curtains, drawing them closed on the other side leaving his boss alone with the copper. 

The tension and silence in the room increased, hanging thick and heavy in the air. Each man playing a waiting game. Both tenacious, relentless, dogged. Stokes set his cigar in the cut crystal ashtray and drew his hands together atop his desk, interlacing his fingers. He drew in a breath and was about to speak when Jack broke the silence in an attempt to gain the upper hand against his adversary. 

"You do realize, Stokes, that kidnapping and aggravated assault against a police officer are serious offenses. Not to mention all the other violations you've accumulated in your storied career." The detective moved forward to the edge of his chair, feet set wide, hand setting at the top juncture of his thigh and hip giving the impression of leaning whilst still sitting. 

"Hear me out, Robinson, and I promise to make it worth your while," Stokes began. 

Jack cocked his head at the man in front of him, brows raised at his gall. "Oh... and shall I add bribery to the already lengthening list of charges?" 

"Do you really think you'd've listened to what I had to say if I'd just waltzed into your station and sat down for a nice chat and cuppa?" Bold eyes met the detective's, but they were laced with something else. "Hear me out." He paused, trying to look hopeful. "Then you can decide." His voice tapered off, eyes worriedly glancing down to fidgeting hands.  

The about-face in Stokes' demeanor took the detective aback. His reputation as a hardened and no-nonsense 'business man' was at war with the man Jack suddenly saw before him. The change in his mien was fluid and almost instantaneous. 

A tentative knock behind the curtain caused Stokes to look up. A voice behind the curtain "Boss?"  

"Yes? What is it?!" His voice was clipped, annoyed at the interruption. 

"You'd asked for this earlier, Boss. I didn't know if you still wanted it?" Henry's hesitant lackey entered brandishing a silver tray. On it was a cut crystal compote dish with a most delicious confection in it. An artful serving of Peach Melba was adorned with a spun sugared dome and a smattering of slivered almonds. 

Stokes made a two-fingered sweep towards himself in a 'bring it here' motion. As the tray passed the Inspector on its way to the desk, his stomach growled loudly. A knowing smile erupted on Henry's face. 

"Ah, forgive me. Where are my manners?" he said as the dessert was placed in front of him. "Steen, please tell Chef to throw something together for our guest here. I'm sure there's still something left from tonight's dinner?" He looked at his lackey and nodded.  

"Another bribe, Stokes?" Jack added. 

"Bribe? Hardly," he said shaking his head. "It's the least I can do for inconveniencing you this evening. Can't have you fainting on me before we've concluded our business, now, can we?" Stokes dipped his spoon in the desert, taking equal parts ice cream and peach with enough raspberry sauce, almonds and spun sugar to have a completely balanced mouthful. As he savored the bite, he let out an unrestrained moan of pleasure. He was a man of creature comforts, and his expectation of and enjoyment of good food was well known. 

The inspector's stomach rumbled again. Louder this time, if that was possible. "I couldn't possibly..." 

"Besides," Stokes cut him off with a wave of his spoon, "when was the last time you ate? From your 'lean hungry look,' and the rumpus your stomach's making I'd say a fair few hours ago? Maybe even this morning?" He chuckled and ate another bite, inhaling and closing his eyes, relishing the mix of flavors. He nodded to his associate who had been standing silently at his boss' side. "Just tell Steen here how you'd like your steak, and well get on with the business at hand then, shall we?" 

Jack, looking slightly flustered and guilty (though he knew he had no reason to be, but in his line of work, appearances of impropriety could make or break one's career), looked to Stokes' man and replied hoarsely. "Medium..." His voice hitched and he coughed to clear it. "Uh, medium rare, if you don't mind, thank you, Mr. Steen," all the while fidgeting his hands in his lap. "And, uh, thank you, Mr. Stokes." 

"Right away," the lackey nodded. "Call me Bruce," he said as he lobbed a grin in his employer's direction before exiting with the empty tray. 

Alone again, Stokes began to explain the convoluted circumstances that culminated in the detective's abduction and arrival to his inner sanctum. 

Ever since the death of Leslie 'Squizzy' Taylor, the various crime lords (from the petty to the prominent) had all been scrabbling to fill the void, vying for the title and position of top dog in Melbourne's underworld. With 'Long Harry' Slater also out of the picture, the fight to the top became an even more combustible and confusing 'competition;' a pissing contest that sprayed more than bullets on the unsuspecting and unwary masses. A persistent, unsettled feeling had been simmering just beneath the surface. It materialized an increase of ructions and skirmishes. This inordinate escalation of crime continued to wreak havoc down the line on the vice and homicide divisions of the Victorian Constabulary, not to mention within the ranks of the various underworld factions. 

With many of these wildly varied elements all wanting to usurp his position as underworld 'royalty,' Henry Stokes had become a target; his wife Annie unwittingly caught in the cross-fire. When she hadn't returned home from visiting her sister three nights ago, he had sent a few of his men to track her down, but to no avail.   

The Stokes' were well known for their passionate, yet tumultuous relationship. There were times their hot-headed and vocal arguments would lead to a row rife with verbal fireworks. There were times Annie could be petulant and bitter, knowing exactly how to lash out with the deepest sting. This would oft times result in a counterpoint barrage of Henry's fury, at which point, his lackeys knew to make themselves scarce until things blew over. Most times those fireworks continued into their loud and legendary antics in the boudoir. Occasionally, a particularly difficult disagreement would cause a temporary rift, prompting her to disappear to her sister's, thus giving both of them some time to cool down. Unlike previous instances, this particular visit to her sister had been planned, pre-arranged. This time was different; she hadn't returned, she had disappeared into thin air. 

Henry hadn't made much headway in his search for his wife, but when he received a ransom note the previous evening, he discovered she had been kidnapped. Kidnapped by a blowhard little pissant named Richard 'Tricky Dicky' Springthorpe.  

Another knock behind the curtain, and the scent of a perfectly cooked steak announced the return of Bruce with Jack's dinner, which was met with yet another loud greeting from his stomach. _Good god man! Get it together. Thankfully you're not on a stake out or your stomach might have given you away._ Jack made a mental note to make sure he ate before any future stake outs. _Well... save for any with Miss Fisher, as she tends to bring with her delicious samplings from Mr. Butler's fine cooking._ _But I digress..._  

Bruce placed the tray down, and set its contents on the desk in front of the inspector. It was a hearty, yet deliciously appointed meal – a large, juicy steak, runner beans, boiled carrots and a pot of tea. The napkin was fine linen, the tea service fine china, and the engraved silverware, he suspected, was antique sterling. 

As Stokes had finished his dessert, Bruce removed the dish and spoon to the tray and started to leave. As he approached the curtain, Henry called out to him. "Come back in about 20-25 minutes with dessert if you would, Bruce. I think our guest will be ready for it by then." A grin crept up his face as he leaned forward to relight the cigar he had snuffed out earlier. 

Bruce nodded and continued through the curtain leaving the twinned figures alone again. 

Jack tucked into his meal like a man starving, (which, in fact, he was) his own moans of pleasure escaping between mouthfuls. His eyes involuntarily closed as he enjoyed another large bite of steak, which, he mused, was quite possibly the best he'd ever eaten.  

Stokes puffed his cigar, looking on in solidarity, and continued with his narrative. 

Springthorpe, a lanky, long locked, dimpled man with the faded appearance of a once 'pretty-boy' had recently relocated his activities from Sydney expecting to take his place in Melbourne's ranks as if he were transferring a club membership to another chapter. He even had the audacity (and delusion) to expect what few connections he had in Melbourne, as well as his reputation, to precede him. He was extremely put out when he discovered he couldn't be more wrong, and set about trying to rectify the situation, in an extremely violent manner. As a result of his rapidly escalating and out of control temper, Annie Stokes got caught in the middle - an unwilling pawn in a dangerous game. 

'Tricky Dicky's' entrance onto the Melbourne scene was wreaking all sorts of havoc; not only for the Victorian Constabulary, as one might expect, but also on other members and factions of the criminal variety. He was quickly becoming a menace to the normally opposing organizations of criminals and police forces alike. 

Springthorpe employed all manner of underhanded and brazen tactics in an attempt to put himself on top of the heap. He infiltrated various gangs with his men in order to bribe them or bend them to his will. When the results of his efforts were lackluster, he resorted to more emphatic methods including murder. Murder in many forms; sometimes blatant – gunning down a victim (in some cases entire families) in the street in broad daylight, or even blowing up a place of business. Other times it was more subtle - poisoning, bribing, or strong-arming someone into do the deed for him. He even resorted to trying to pit some of the minor thugs against each other; a tactic that had unilaterally failed. Not having gone through it himself, he was ignorant of the fact that most of Melbourne's underworld players were extremely wary and still smarting almost a decade after 'Squizzy' Taylor's implementation of the Fitzroy Vendetta which lasted from 1919-1921. 

Henry Stokes was considered one of the 'kings' of the Melbourne underworld, so Springthorpe had latched onto him as a sort of linchpin, a way to glom onto a bigger piece of the pie. With the death of 'Squizzy' Taylor, Stokes had lost his supplier of sly grog. And now with the “King of Snow” (Lydia Andrews) in the gaol, the cocaine pipeline 'Squizzy' had been arranging between them had been diverted. In the meantime, Stokes had managed to obtain several new connections, but they were still in a probationary period of sorts, as he hadn't completely sussed them out. So far, they hadn't caused any strife, and were proving to be trustworthy.  

It was at this tenuous juncture that 'Dicky' had bulldogged his way in. He'd approached Henry with a proposition for a business partnership. He would be the exclusive supplier of sly grog at and cocaine to Stokes with the profits being split 70/30 in Springthorpe's favor. Having been burned by a similar proposition years ago, Stokes had dismissed him out of hand as a self-important windbag, very much like he had with Taylor. What set Springthorpe apart from the dead mobster, however, was his deadly, violent temper. Something that Stokes discovered in short order. 

It was at this moment that Bruce returned with another artfully crafted serving of Peach Melba. He quietly removed the Inspector's empty plates (which were, he noted, completely devoid of any food remnants – no need to bother washing them, eh?), and placed the dessert in front of the policeman. Jack looked up at the man and thanked him before he whisked away the tray and exited.  

Henry leaned back in his chair as he watched his guest's eyes admire the confection in front of him. He'd wager a week's take the copper had never tasted this particular treat before. 

Jack picked up his spoon, hesitating slightly as it crunched through the spun sugar gathering almonds, raspberry sauce, a large chunk of peach and a fair helping of ice cream. He slowly drew the overfilled spoon to his mouth, taking it all in in one bite. The spoon slid from between his lips and an explosion of flavors and textures erupted on his tongue. He set down the spoon as the nuances of the simple yet delectable dessert assailed his taste buds. Another decidedly audible moan escaped; this time he blushed. 

 _Ha! There's your proof. Well... that was an eas_ _y_ _bet._ Stokes smiled conspiratorially. "No worries, Robinson. Man after my own heart. Can't trust a man who doesn't enjoy good food, eh?" He took another drag on his cigar watching his doppelgänger devour his food. _Hmmph_ _... in some ways we could very well be twins. This could bode well..._  

"Mmm... yes," Jack muttered in between bites. "Thank you, again, for dinner," he paused, feeling slightly awkward at his gratitude toward the mobster. "Please do give my compliments to your chef. I can't say when I've enjoyed a meal more." _Well... there was that gratin in his office last month. COMPLETELY different circumstances, mind you._ _Different dessert as well..._ He internally shook his head, bringing him back to the here and now. He returned his attention to the melting sweet while Stokes returned to his tale. 

The ransom note had laid out in detail just what 'Tricky Dicky' wanted Stokes to do in order to get his wife back. Springthorpe expected him to simply 'hand over' the running of the grog and drugs to him. It had also explicitly spelled out what would happen to her should he not follow instructions to the letter. (Threats of body part removal and 'gifting' them to Stokes tied in ribboned boxes had him blanching, stomach churning.) As it was, a lock of Annie's hair had been hacked off and included (with part of the feather from her favorite headband) with the ransom note. Henry was having a hard time restraining himself from not charging over to 'wherever that little shit Springthorpe was hiding and blowing his fucking balls off,' but he knew it wouldn't help get his Annie back.   

All of this had lead the Crime King of the South to approach _(abducti_ _on_ _was such a harsh term)_ Inspector Robinson. Besides, it wasn't in his best interests to let any harm come to the detective. Surely that would work in his favor? He'd heard that Robinson was a man of unassailable character, seeking justice for the wronged; a man you could never hope to bribe. He had also heard that he was a fair man who listened, taking all sides into account. It was this last reason that Stokes was counting on to help him retrieve his wife, and at the same time rid Melbourne of its newest and deadly menace. 

During their conversation, Stokes laid out the current situation to the inspector. Jack was more than familiar with Springthorpe and his minions. Many a late night had been spent on chasing leads, conducting raids and paperwork; mountains of paperwork that showed no signs of letting up. With every new arrest, the constabulary had hoped to remove more of the unsavory elements from the streets of their city, but it was beginning to look as if they were, unsuccessfully, battling the multi-headed hydra of old. One low-level criminal would be arrested and two more, even worse, would pop up in their place. A number of stings, raids, and undercover operations had been put into action, but the police hadn't made much traction against the ringleader – the aptly named 'Tricky Dicky' himself.  He had, thus far, managed to evade each attempt to ensnare him.  

A number of the 'old timers' (those criminals who had been on the Melbourne scene for years) had even, under a tenuous flag of truce, gathered together to discuss a way to rid the city of Springthorpe. That in itself was a grim indication of just how dire things had become. There had even been a few haphazard assassination attempts on 'Dicky,' but as his name suggested, he was 'tricky,' indeed. 

"You can see my dilemma, eh, Jack? Can I call you Jack?" Stokes said, emphasizing the detective's name and clicking the end consonant. An ironic twist curled the edge of his lips and a brief twinkle lit his eyes. "Much as we are on opposite sides of the law," his face returned to its serious demeanor, "I think that it would behoove us to work together to get this menace off the streets. Not to mention... I'd like to get my wife back... unharmed, and in one piece." Stokes leaned back in his chair and took another long drag on his cigar, his eyes scanning the (almost) mirror image in front of him. 

Inspector Robinson quieted for several moments of contemplation and sympathetic introspection, weighing each aspect of the problem at hand equally and without judgement. Stokes did have a point. Springthorpe's entrée onto the Melbourne scene was not only affecting the criminal world, but the property damage and death toll in the realm of the general public alone was rapidly rising, and seemed to have no end in sight. The danger he posed was more and more evident with each passing day.  

There was enormous pressure coming down from Russell Street on the police force to crack down on the proliferation of crime, property damage and death, as well as a mandate to apprehend Springthorpe – dead or alive. In addition, there was marked personal pressure on Jack coming directly from Deputy Commissioner Sanderson (who was, coincidentally, his father-in-law).  

Jack brought his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He pressed in and swept them outward along his brows, and dragged in a deep breath, meting it out slowly as he set his knuckles on his thigh, elbow at a right angle. "Alright, then, Henry. Can I call you Henry?" An almost identical lip curl and eye glint mirrored the one he'd received just moments ago. He, most certainly, could give as good as he got. "What did you have in mind?" 

"Well, Jack... I'm sure that if we put our heads together, we can come up with a plan." A knowing twinkle shone from eyes in an otherwise stony face. 

"Ah, yes... 'two heads are better than one?' That right, Henry?" the inspector deadpanned with a matching gleam. 

Stokes reached for the cut crystal decanter on his desk, lifting it up at a slight angle towards his guest, who responded with an ever so subtle nod. He poured a generous two fingers of whiskey into each tumbler before setting down the decanter and moving one tumbler across the desk. He picked up his own tumbler and raised it towards his doppelgänger. "To the return of my wife." 

"And the elimination of strife," added the detective, following suit.   

As both men knocked back their libations in one swallow, an errant thought flitted through Jack's mind. _This certainly wasn't the post case wrap up drink I was expecting when I left_ _the station this evening._ _Most decidedly not the parlor I was hoping for, and_ _certainly not_ _the company._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dessert note: (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peach_Melba): 
> 
> The Peach Melba is a dessert of peaches and raspberry sauce with vanilla ice cream. The dish was invented in 1892 or 1893 by the French chef Auguste Escoffier at the Savoy Hotel, London, to honor the Australian soprano Nellie Melba. 
> 
> In 1892, operatic soprano Nellie Melba was performing in Wagner's opera Lohengrin at Covent Garden. The Duke of Orléans gave a dinner party to celebrate her triumph. For the occasion, Escoffier created a new dessert, and to display it, he used an ice sculpture of a swan, which is featured in the opera. The swan carried peaches which rested on a bed of vanilla ice cream and which were topped with spun sugar. In 1900 Escoffier created a new version of the dessert. For the occasion of the opening of the Carlton Hotel, where he was head chef, Escoffier omitted the ice swan and topped the peaches with raspberry purée. 
> 
> And: (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nellie_Melba) 
> 
> Dame Nellie Melba GBE (19 May 1861 – 23 February 1931), born Helen Porter Mitchell, was an Australian operatic soprano. She became one of the most famous singers of the late Victorian era and the early 20th century. She was the first Australian to achieve international recognition as a classical musician. She took the pseudonym "Melba" from Melbourne, her home town. (She was born in Richmond, Victoria.) 
> 
> Silly note: Bonus points if you get the in-jokes. ;o)


End file.
